The Merchant
by Mo1881
Summary: A story inspired by New Earth and Gridlock. This isn't really a Doctor Who story, strictly speaking  but it is very much inspired by Who see author's note. Rated T for some language, and for being gritty all 'round. Reviews welcome. One shot vignette.


**Author's Note: **This was part of a fiction game I did on another site. Words and phrases (the ones you see in bold), were chosen by a group and had to be incorporated into a story. I was fascinated by the contrast between the sort of "upper" city of New New York in "New Earth" and the slums of New New York in "Gridlock" - as well as the sheer scale of New New York. So while this strictly speaking isn't a Doctor Who story... it is certainly (and, I think if you give it a read, _obviously_) inspired by Doctor Who.

**Disclaimer:** Well, last I heard it wasn't infringement to be inspired by something so... oh me oh my... I can say I own this whole darn story! w00t!**  
**

**The Merchant**

Thousands of stories towered above the merchants of the street, reducing the view of the sky to a narrow slit of blue; reflecting the **parochial** interests of the Lower City dwellers **blind** to any other world outside their visible surroundings. Work, get paid, eat, sleep. Their world was viewed through the **lens** of survival, minute to minute focused on the act of merely existing.

Only a trickle of anything managed to make it down to the Lower City – light, water, fresh air – the only breeze being generated by the ventilator fans pushing around the stale air; a **fusion** of bodily odours, street meat, and the **lotion** everyone used to create an invisible barrier against the grime that was always drifting down from the Middle and Upper Cities.

The Lower City was a dying seedling, abandoned and forgotten under the shadowy expanse of a grand redwood, where only insects and vermin could thrive in the detritus left over from life above.

A merchant with the figure of a pit bull sat at her stall, reading a greasy old newspaper that had somehow worked its way down from the Middle City. It probably came from the same source as the **drunken** vomit that she had to clean up in front of her stall that morning. Some **drunk** who had come down to escape their clean Middle City life, their strange sense of emptiness. Empty of the meaning that came with struggle. Empty because everything was taken care of for them – their waste, their shit, their refuse – all by the workers of the Lower City. Empty from having anything they needed, but not quite enough of what they wanted.

The Middle City dwellers, looking for nights of anonymous debauchery, always came down with their oxygen canisters. Tubes running with fresh air like a **salamander** tail into one **nostril**, scented with lavender and happy thoughts. They couldn't stand the smell of the Lower City, even if in part that smell was their own. They would make their way back up once they had used the Lower City dwellers for their purpose, **drunk** on a sense of adventure, the shamefully secret weekend warrior.

There was a disturbance at the other side of the street, and the merchant looked up from her paper. The article had been some piece of **conjecture** about some politician she had never heard of before. Some **erudite** prose about a politician whose actions, like everything else, only trickled down to the Lower City. The words stared back at her like meaningless symbols. They were devoid of meaning through her own lack of interest.

"Dammit, I told you!" A merchant across the street was yelling at a man in a suit. A suit. He must be a newcomer. An Upper City dweller. You didn't get many of those down here.

"If you would just tell me again… I'm looking for-" The man in the suit pressed. Clean fingernails, clean collar. The only thing dirty was the cuffs of his trousers, and that must have been from the muck on the street.

SLAM! The other merchant dropped his window down, closing the man in the suit out.

"My friend." The man ended resignedly.

The merchant stared at the man in the suit for a moment as hung his head. He was clearly lost in these surroundings, not sure what to do. As he stood, the grime drifted down, down from whence he came, sticking to his white collar and black clad shoulders in a fine dust. Somewhere off down the street a woman scolded her child. **"If I told you once, I told you a thousand times!"** The ventilation fans steadily clicked, pushing the stale stinking air around. There was something different about this man in the suit. Something unlike most newcomers.

No tube. Nothing to cover the scent that repulsed the dwellers from above. He was here, standing in the putrid underground, drinking in the full experience.

"Hey buddy." The merchant sighed and put down her paper, calling out to him. He looked up at her, his eyes suddenly becoming hopeful as if she were the only port in a storm. "Who ya lookin' for?"

He wandered over to the stand and leaned up against its dirty yellow plastic. He looked at her again, as if to make sure that she had really acknowledged his presence. She stared back. She had nowhere else to be. Finally, he when he was sure, he said. "I'm looking for my friend."

"Well, that I gathered." The merchant responded. "I mean who ya lookin' for specifically. What's he look like? Where's he from?"

The man in the suit smiled faintly. "His name is Morris. From the Upper City. Sort of a squat fellow, green eyes, black hair."

"No." Said the merchant. "I haven't heard or seen of anyone like that around here. We don't see too many of you Upper City types, and I'd 'ave heard if your buddy were down here… he'd 'ave been news."

She picked up the newspaper again, opening to an advert for foot fungus. **"Are those your toenails?"** The caption read below a picture of a foot with cracked and yellowing nails. She had thought the man in the suit would leave now, but he stood there and watched her reading with interest. Why had she extended the offer of help in the first place? She should have just left him standing there.

"What?" she finally asked, looking up, uncomfortable under his curious gaze.

"What do you all do down here?" he asked, trying to draw her into conversation.

"Whaddaya mean?"

"What do you do? I see no parks. No entertainment. No-"

She lowered her paper. Somewhere in the distance a horn blew. Lunch time. The workers began to file out of the dank and grubby brick buildings – faces pale and ashen. They lined up at the merchant stands, depositing soot-covered coins into the jars. They'd shout out what they want, and it would come sliding down a tube into their paper lunch sacks. The air became filled with shouts from the workers and merchants, rising above the steady clicking of the ventilator fans.

**"Corned beef? I'll give ya corned beef."** Came a shout from one angry merchant.

The merchant slapped her paper on her dirty counter. No one was lining up at her stand because the newcomer was standing there. "Look buddy, you're bad for business."

The man in the suit peered over at the paper. "My friend reads the Times. There's an article about him in there in fact." He looked around absently, as if to leave the responsibility of further conversation up to her, should it suit her. On one of the brick walls, a screen blinked and fuzzed. "303 **Kelvin**" flashed across it.

The merchant shrugged. "Well, this morning I found this paper here on my stand, and some vomit along with it. Maybe your buddy came down here to get **drunk** and dirty… like everyone else."

The man in the suit nodded. Somewhere above a car **zoom**ed by leaving a trail of exhaust which slowly descended on the lunch-time crowd below. A second horn sounded and the workers filed back into the buildings. The doors latched closed, and the street was once again empty except for the merchants and their stands.

The man in the suit seemed to have heard all he wanted to hear. He reached into his trouser pocket and fished around for something, change jingled and bills rustled.

"I used to have family down here awhile back. Used to be nice before the city got built up so high. Damn shame really. They're ah…" he pulled a wad of bills and coins out and put it on the stand. **"They don't live here anymore."**

"What's this for?" The merchant eyed him suspiciously. Upper City money usually only changed hands for one or two reasons, neither of which she wanted to get mixed up in.

The man in the suit laughed, sensing her discomfort. "That should about cover your lost business for today. It's the least I can do."

The merchant looked at him closely, her decision perched between her pride, and her lost income. Finally, she reached out a hand and swept the cash into the jar. The man in the suit smiled, and began to walk away.

"I hope you find your friend." She called out to him, in some last ditch attempt to sustain their connection. The man looked back over his shoulder at her and smiled, this time a large one, bearing his teeth in a wolfish grin.

"Nah." He said. "I think I'd rather he stayed lost for the time being."

The merchant stared at him puzzled, unsure of what to do with this apparent about face. The man in the suit noted her confusion and turned to continue walking.

"Read the article again." He shouted. And he disappeared into the grime and shadow of the Lower City.

END


End file.
